An Empire of Fire and Blood: The Dragon Resurgent
by StrangerInTheAlps7
Summary: The Last Winter fades as spring returns to the broken lands of Westeros. From the ash, an Empire will rise.


Dragons wrought from gold and gemstone coiled around her silver blond hair. Wings cast from fine silver glistened like night stars amidst the dim light of the Great Hall. The eyes of her house's sigil—masterfully etched into ivory, onyx, and jade—cowed her lords into submission. Whether enraptured by her beauty or fearful of her rage, all men bowed to the dragon.

Yet the crown weighted heavy upon her head. Thankfully the chair—built from the blood of battle and the spoils war—did not bare its fangs, though the Mother of Dragons still felt ill at ease when she sat the Iron Throne. She hated how the embrace of the weathered steel shot shivers down her spines. Though forged in the fires of Balerion the Dread, Aegon's throne always felt eerily cold upon her porcelain skin. She could already feel the ache in her shoulders and the tightness in her neck as the weight of the realm barred down upon her.

Although her beauty held their gaze, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen knew that many still cursed her name. _They smile and laugh, all the while sharpening their swords. _Her body sat rigidly against the back of the unyielding throne, but she feigned comfort with smiles and warm words. _We must make it appear as though this damned chair is a part of us, dear Egg, less we let them take it from us again._ She craned her aching neck to her right, looking upon her nephew, who only had eyes for the dough-eyed princess that bounced from his lap. Aegon Targaryen VI, the Prince Returned and King of Westeros, sat on his pillows and doted upon his daughter, happily leaving the pandering and politics to Dany for the day. Dany likened court to the barbarity of war—a monotonous boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. However, she could not begrudge her nephew for showering his princess with affection. _It is my turn, after all_, she thought, _even a father should receive a gift on his daughter's name day._

Dany remember the first time she met her nephew and king. In the Usurper's own solar, looking out over the raging waves of Shipbreaker Bay, House Targaryen made peace. Apparently, the puppeteers that pulled their strings, making the dragons dance about in their game of thrones, intended for Aegon to take her as his wife in the tradition of Old Valyeria. The Cheese Merchant, the Spider, and Grey Griffin all assured Aegon that she would be complacent to such an arrangement. When she arrived upon the Stormland's weather-beaten shores, she received her nephew graciously, drank his wine, ate his food, and to the horror of his wise counselors, steadfastly refused his marriage proposal. Dany still remembered how the late Jon Connington fumed with indignation, the flecks of grey decay falling like tainted snow upon the table. By then, the grey scale had all but taken him, and though bright red patches of hair sprouted defiantly from his disease-ridden skin, his pale eyes stared out from the grey waste without seeing. He seethed with accusations of usurpation, with the desecration of his beloved Silver Prince's memory, all while his King sat calmly, never looking away from his aunt. Then, without regard for his own health, Aegon gently clutched the rotting mass of grey flesh that was once his surrogate father's hand.

"_Be clam, Lord Cottington."_ She remembered him saying, soothing his ailing lord with a warm smile, "_She does not deny me a throne, only a place in her bed."_

Perhaps Aegon saw the hurt in her amethyst eyes on that day, the desecration of her womb, or scars that riddle her body just below the skin. If he did, Aegon never mentioned it, never broaching the subject of her past without her unequivocal approval. He accepted without protest that his aunt would not sell herself like a common whore for another crown.

By the time the hour the wolf struck and the moon hung high above Storms End, Rhagar's kin agreed to rule Westeros as King and Queen, unwed and equal in power._ Sweet Egg with his easy smiles and infectious laughter._ _The best in Viserys_, she often thought to herself, _the brother I always deserved_.

Before she felt Aegon's love, Dany was truly lost. In her dreams, she once envisioned her grand return to Westeros upon the back of Drogon with all the might of Essos behind her. The taste of reality lacked the sweetness of such songs. She found her way to the shore of her homeland as a beggar, with only a small contingent of unsullied and what remained of khalsaar. The lash of failure stripped away any trace of Queen Daenerys, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, leaving only the sad broken child of her past. The infernal kraken, with his horn and foul magic, scattered her children to the winds. Mereen, the city she once meant to rule, stood as little more than a pile of colored brick and ash. Only Aegon and the promise of family reignited her fire. Only the reconciliation house put the sword back in her hand.

Naturally, her thoughts next turned to her other nephew. Though the sun's oppressive heat barred down upon the Red Keep, a sudden chill shot through her bones. _From Storms End, we flew north on the wings of dark word and even darker dreams_. _We found my children atop a wall of ice. We found your brother as well_—_the dragon whelped by a wolf._ _Yes. We found your brother, Aegon, but he was not alone. _For a moment,the frozen grip of memory seized her, prying loose all the demons that stalked her sleepless nights. She braced the jagged steal of Aegon the Conqueror, tethering herself to reality even as she felt the palm of her hand grow wet with blood. The piercing stare of glowing blue eyes—sharper than any sword forged by man—cut through her. _No, not now_, she trembled. The deafening surge of darkness and death pressed against her eardrums. Dany bit down hard on her lip, the metallic taste of madness flooding her mouth.

_Leave me be, demons!_

"Are you ill, your Grace?"

Suddenly, the cold terror released her.

"Forgive me, Thoros of Myr." She donned her regal mask, smiling at the ragged red knight that stood before. "As the day winds on, my mind seems to drift further from these halls. Please continue."

"No need to apologize, Mother of Dragons, the earthly worries of man cannot bind the chosen vessel of Rhollr's grace."

When the tattered priest smiled, the wrinkles of his face became more pronounced across his weathered skin. _Did the monsters from the cold suck the life from you, Priest? Will that be my fate as well?_

"But I do not speak of the petty matter's of high lords and landed knights, Queen Daeneryes. I speak of service to the One True God."

"Ah, yes, the temple you wish to build." She leaned back in her throne, her silver gold hair pressed against the cool steel. "We gifted the followers of the Red God ample land upon Rhaenys Hill as a reward for their brave service at the Wall," she steeled herself against involuntary pulse of fear, "Please, good priest, build your temple there in the embrace of my noble house."

"We intend to, your Grace, but there is the matter of funding we must consider."

Dany chuckled, trying to draw the priest in with the allure of her Targaryen eyes. _The Red Priests take no such vows to abscond from the flesh of women—like any other man, they melt at the thought of a my touch._

"Must it always be about coins, my dear Priest?" she responded playfully, "The King and I follow the Faith. Our gods will cut our kingdom down with all seven of their swords if we were to open our hearts to another."

"Your gods are jealous gods if the would blind you from the light, Your Grace"

"And what of your god, Thoros of Myr? Your God demands that you to throw the faithless into the flame, does he not?"

The Myrish priest's body tensed. "Some in our faith adhere to such practices, but most only honor the breath of life given by the Holy Flame."

_The same breath you breathed into Jon Snow?_

"It makes no matter, I fear we do not possess the coin to spare."

"What of the gold you give to the Faith so that they may rebuild their Sept?" the Priest challenged.

Dany brushed off his insolence, "you are mistaken, Thoros. My men are in charge of rebuilding the Sept of Bealor—not the Faith—and they rebuild it for the poor of all gods, be they red or numerous." She shifted in her chair, ignoring the growing pain in her spine, "You see, we are constructing a shelter for the lowest of kings landing so they might never find themselves without a warm hearth, clean water, or a hot meal. A noble deed for any god, am I wrong?"

"No doubt, Your Grace, but you would build at the feet of the Seven when the true faithful swarm upon your shores, desperate to bathe in the warmth of you and your dragons?"

_A persistent old man, aren't you?_

"And they are welcome to my embrace, as are all the children that walk this earth, but my dear nephew and I still keep to the Seven." She gave the Thoros an apologetic smile, "besides, we only build our noble endeavor upon the Sept because it offers the greatest foundation."

Rather than being deterred, however, a defiant youthfulness seemed to fill the old priest lungs, compelling him to hound his Queen. "The Seven may be the gods of your ancestors and much of Westeros…but things are changing, Mother of Dragons." Dany swore she saw a shadow past across his once placid face, "you need only look to the North. Look to those who saw the army of the dark god whose name must not be spoken; look to those who peered into the depths of the true night."

Dany's body tensed. _You will not speak of such evils in my presence, Demon Worshipper._ But before Dany could spit her venom, sweet Egg intervened with honeyed words.

"What Northmen do you speak of, Thoros? The newly minted House Thenn of Karhold or the sparse handful of minor houses sprung forth from the Gift? Besides those few, how many now turn away from their sacred trees?" though he spoke to the withered red priest, the dazzle of his smile and sparkle of his violet eye never turned from his little Naeryes. "After the horrors of the Last Winter, no doubt the Northerners stare in awe of your God's power, but that does not mean that they bow to him. The draw their strength from the Old Gods, for they are the children of the First Men."

"But as you say, how can they deny the truth of R'hlorr after what they saw?" the Red Priest now stunk of desperation, "how can you, my king?"

_You dare question your king, you red fool?_

Egg's laugh filled the halls as he began to bounce his sweet babe upon his knee, "The harsh winter makes for stubborn men, just ask my brother." Naerys laughed gleefully as her father hoisted her into the air, "and tread carefully, priest. Don't ever presume to question a dragon."

Though the smile never left her nephews face, Dany felt sting of fire in his words. _An Aegon not an Egg_, she thought proudly.

The priest's faded crimson robes now seemed to hang heavier upon his thin shoulders. Whether in fealty to his Queen and King or out of exhaustion, Thoros of Myr dip into a deep bow.

"Forgive me, my King…" his pale-brown eyes then turned toward her, "my Queen." His brief surge of conviction dissipated, "The passion of faith often drives men to say foolish things."

"There is nothing to forgive." For the first time, Egg looked up at the tattered priest, "you must smile, Thoros of Myr, for the light of summer shines on you."

"May the light shine upon all of us, your Grace."

"Now it is I who must ask for forgiveness, Thoros of Myr," Egg continued before the vanquished flame could return to the crowds, "I must ask you to stay at the Red Keep at least until the end of my sweet daughters name day celebrations."

"If you were to ask, I would never leave the confines of your keep for I am forever the humble servant of R'hlorr's children. What, may I inquire, do you need of me?"

_No you may not inquire, fire demon_, Dany thought as she bit her tongue.

"My brother, Lord Crowstark, makes for the capital as we speak. He desires your council on matters concerning the growing number of outlaws that plague the Riverlands."

Though she thought it impossible, the Red priest seemed to grow grayer at the mention of the burning fields and despoiled water that now made up the once fertile lands of House Tully.

"Of…Of course, your grace."

"Good," Aegon stood, holding his child to his chest, "then please, Thoros of Myr, I ask you to make yourself feel at home in my family's house."

Thoros of Myr gave one final bow at the foot of the throne before his Fiery Hand consumed him, flanking him on either side before making their way towards the entrance of the Great Hall. _On one account, the old priest is not mistaken: the flame worshippers now flock to our city._ Dany remembered when the Red God's guard first made their pilgrimage of war. Men clad in black leather, the mark of their god etched into their dusky faces, with spears tipped by fire pointed towards the Wall. They refused the blankets and cloaks offered to them, claiming that only the fire of their lord and the death of his enemy could warm them. _You brought death to the enemy, but legions of you paid with your lives. _Once the sunset upon the Last Winter, however, the fire worshipers did not return to their homes upon the shores of Essos. On the contrary, more and more voyaged to Westeros, so as to pray amidst dragon fire.

After the Red Priest's audience with the throne ceased, the courtiers resumed the mumbled discussion of trivialities and hushed whispers of gossip until her Lord Hand announced the next petitioner.

"Ah, four hours in and already nearly halfway through the list," Tyrion Lannister exclaimed in mock revelry. He sat below her to the left, beside the stairs that ascended to the thrones, fidgeting in his own ornate wooden chair. "At this rate, we will set a record."

He inspected the long roll of paper in his hand.

"Lord Willas of House Tyrell: Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach." The chatter around the court quieted as Lord Lannister looked up from his parchment, "please, step forward and address your Queen and King."

A tall lithe man garbed in a brilliant emerald doublet stepped forward. His long auburn hair had gone white at his temples and flecks of snow riddled his beard, but the Last Rose still appeared youthful and handsome. Though he walked with a limp and required a cane, he still glided gracefully across the floor as he approached the throne.

When he bowed, his auburn hair fell towards the floor, "My Queen and King, it warms my heart be in the presence of dragons."

_You hide your loathing well, Rose_. She straightened her back before speaking, "it is your smile that warms us, my lord. What brings you here before us today? Ask anything of me and I will do my upmost to grant it."

The false smiled disappeared form his face as his mouth went slack with confusion. "I am at loss, your Grace, for I came here under the assumption that it was you who requested my presence."

Dany turned to Egg, but her nephew kept his eyes dutifully trained upon his daughter, refusing to look up at the Reach lord. _He no longer laughs_, Dany thought sadly. _The_ _brother of his greatest dishonor stands before him, silencing him in his own court_.

Although they spat upon their oaths owed to the dragon, first with the Usurper Baratheons and later the ill-gotten Lannisters, Dany still felt a pang of pity for the once great House Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell met his end on the field against the Golden Company. Garlan Tyrell died after taking a wound during the siege of Highgarden, not long after his killer got his lady sister with child. Wounded himself during the battle, Egg was bed ridden following his victory. Lady Maergery personally saw to the recovery of both her brother and the dragon prince. Perhaps she did it for the crown that seemed to constantly elude her, or maybe she did truly love him—Dany did not know. By the time Aegon made for King's Landing, however, Garlan slept in his father's crypt and Lady Maergery held two Targaryen Bastards in her womb.

Suddenly, like a siren's song, the of voice of Arianne Martell rose above the clamoring whispers, "Lord Tyrell, it was I who requested your presence or, more accurately, the presence of Lady Maergery."

Though he tried, Lord Tyrell failed to hide his worry as he looked towards the Queen Consort of Aegon VI—"the dark times my sister spent in this city still haunt her, I am afraid. I did not wish to rob her of the measure of peace she finds in family."

_And by family you mean the Targaryen bastards that sleep in the nursery of Highgarden. _Given the reputation of Dornish women, Dany thought Lord Tyrell justified in his hesitation.

Along with Lord Lannister, Arianne sat at the foot stairs that led to the thrones, "I know well the horrors that your sister suffered at the hands of the Whore Queen; she speaks of them often in her letters."

_Letters?_

"Strange though, Lord Tyrell, because for months she wrote of her desire to visit the capitol. She wrote of her longing to take tea in the lush gardens while our children played, to walk the streets of flea bottom and feed the poor as she once did, but now she does not come." Her lips curled into a devilish smile as she watched the rose wilt at her words, "Why do you persist on keeping my friend from me?"

Lord Tyrell's already fair skin turned paler. "I feared for her safety, my Queen. The people still remember the tyrannous rule of the Bastard's Line."

"And you hold her responsible for their crimes?"

"Of course not, my Queen, but the common—"

"The commoners love your sweet sister as I do, Lord Tyrell. It is my heart's desire that her sons should know their sisters." Arianne sighed.

"I apologize, my Queen, for my wary heart. My sister and her children are my life now and I guard them jealously." Lord Tyrell leaned heavily upon his cane, a polished staff of birch wood wreathed with intertwining thickets of ivy carved across it. _A humble stick for such a high lord_, Dany thought to herself. "Perhaps after your daughter's name day I can write to her, I can—"

Arianne raised her delicate hand—a brilliant jewel affixed to each of her coppery fingers. "That will not be necessary, my lord, your sister already sent a raven nearly two weeks ago informing me of your reluctance to allow her return to King's Landing. Her letter requested an armed escort and the swiftest sand steeds attached to carriages for the journey." Arianne's delicate lashes flutter as she laughed, "she will not be deterred it seems."

Lord Tyrell appeared as though he wished to protest, but the words failed to escape the confines of his frozen jaw.

The Queen Consort continued, "She makes her way to the capital as we speak under the protection of Ser Humfrey Hightower—the son of your bannerman and member of Aegon VI King's Guard." She then rose from her chair, her exotic eyes trained upon the Reach Lord, "My daughter's brothers will not miss their sister's name day."

As the Dornish Queen sashayed across the floor, Dany felt a strange spasm of envy. Arianne exuded sexuality with every step. Her voluptuous frame swayed rhythmically, enticing her prey into a trance. _Knights may willingly die in defense my honor_, Dany bemused, _but they would gladly sell their own for a night with her._

Dany nearly laughed as she looked out across the hall of once-chaste noblemen, now salivating like dogs hungry for a bone. All men appeared enthralled by her carnal splendor; all men except Lord Tyrell.

When Arianne reached Lord Tyrell, she placed one hand on his hip and the other on his shoulder. The Flower stiffened in the snake's embraced. Arianne looked so small as she held Lord Tyrell, her dark eyes looking up into his green. "Your sister has my love, Lord Tyrell, as do you." She then stood on her toes, gently bringing the Flower to her face, placing a kiss on each of his checks.

Though still relatively unschooled in the exhaustive intricacies and petty enmity that characterized relations between noble blood in Westeros, Dany knew well of the deep hatred that ran between the red sands of Dorne and the golden fields of the Reach. Yet here stood an olive branch.

_The outstretch hand friendship or a hand brandishing the knife._

Only the appearance of Jon Snow's banners broke the stun silence in the grand hall. Three of his crows, solemn and rugged like all Northmen, marched down the center aisle. At catching sight of his brother's sigil, Egg face came alive with excitement.

"Forgive me my lords and ladies, but we must bring the petitioning to a close. If you would be so kind, please leave your written grievances with any of the Lord Hand's pages. Over the coming weeks, you will then be given a private audience with Lord Tyrion."

The hand made his dislike evident as he grimaced before draining what remained of his goblet.

The sigil of newly legitimized House Crowstark—a purple-eyed direwolf encircled in fire upon a field of black—only made Dany feel uneasy. However, she willingly accepted any excuse to get out her infernal chair.

"We must call a meeting of the Small Council," she stood from her Iron Throne, her voicing booming out over the crowd despite her small size, "Queensguard to me. Kingsguard to Aegon."

A sea of white and metal swarmed them as they descended the stairs, beginning the long journey through the halls of the Red Keep towards the Dragon's Table.

_Do you only bring dark words, Lord Snow? Doom and death seem to follow you_, Dany thought tiredly as Jon Snow spoke of the troubles in the kingdoms.

"War still rages in the Riverlands, Aegon," Jon Snow's long face appeared as though the Mason himself craved it from stone, his features never revealing even the faintest unsaid whisper. "These men no longer fight for a cause or king—they fight only for survival, blood, and the hate of a dead woman." He spoke with a measured cadence and even tone, almost painfully transparent in his meaning.

"How could such evils still plague our land?" Varys purred while his eyes watered as if grieving for the thousands lost.

_The Spider loves his stage. _

"We bypassed this butchery when we took King's Landing," Lord Snow's eyes remained downcast, "it would appear as though not all the blood letting stopped when the you took the Iron Throne."

_And whom do you refer to, Lord Snow? "We" did not take King's Landing, only Aegon did. You refused to leave your Wall and cared little for our crown. Do you now mean to now lay this blunder at your brother's feet? _

Occasionally, the acerbic of venom—followed swiftly by the tang of guilt—filled her mouth when Jon Snow spoke. Though Dany never meant it, and Jon Snow never provoked her, she sometimes felt her patience tried quickly by his mere presence. Usually, she found the Stark bastard relatively agreeable. He was kind, honest, and dear to her nephew and king. Though he did not possess the godly features of Old Valyria, no women could ever call him ugly. He stood of height with Aegon, yet broader and more built. The vertical scars engraved upon his pale face transformed his solemn stare into something haunting—something otherworldly. He possessed a harsh beauty befitting of his Northern birth. Only his deep violet eyes—so dark they appeared nearly crimson—gave evidence to his targaryen blood. Regardless of how hard she tried, however, he always felt like a stranger to her. _Aegon is blood of my blood_, she thought, _but you are only a wolf_.

"Lord Corwstark is right, the wound festered as we warred and the fires in the Riverland now burn in earnest." Ser Barristan chimed in.

For the second time that day, Dany felt the bite of jealousy. Ser Barristan held Jon Snow in the highest regard since fighting by his side during the Last Winter. When offered the chance to trudge alongside Lord Snow's crows in search of demons and bandits, her Lord Commander abandoned Dany to his sworn brothers. Though aware of the need for peace in all of her kingdoms, she couldn't help by feel a measure of childish resentment towards her white knight. She felt as though her father now neglected her in favor of some lowly orphan.

"What do you need, brother? Ask for it, and it shall be yours." Aegon asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Please, your grace, I would exercise caution," Harry Strickland—Lord of Grandview and Master of Coin—waived his hand dismissively towards Jon Snow. "The crows come to our coffers looking for feed far too often. We feed hundreds of them as is, and now we must supply a grand invasion of the Riverlands? I will not even begin to discuss the amount of gold we needlessly drain into North…" Dany saw the beads of sweat forming on the small man's bare scalp as he inhaled his plate Dornish peppers, "and after all, Jon Snow has a dragon. Why not save us all the time and coin, and just burn this red bitch as her demon god intended."

"You will address my brother as Lord Crowstark or not at all, Strickland," Egg replied, darkly.

"Of course, Your Grace—the trouble of old age, as you know." Though he dipped his head towards Jon Snow, Lord Strickland do not seem too apologetic for his gaffe.

Jon Snow, however, only sighed as a tired laugh escaped from his frozen lips. He did not appear offended by the use of his bastard name, "It's alright, Aegon."

Dany's body involuntarily tensed at the brotherly familiarity between these two dragons.

Jon Snow turned his attention to the noble of coin counter, "and what of the gold you pour into the Stormlands? Or the halls of Grandview?"

The squat man reddened at the accusation, "I will not have my honor questioned, bast—," he choked on the word as Aegon's eyes bore into fleshy skin, "I serve the realm faithfully."

"I do not doubt that Lord Strickland," Jon Snow continued, his tone even though Dany felt a chill from every syllable he spoke, "I only ask for justice. The North alone amongst the seven kingdoms faced the full brunt of Winter with sword and spear." Dany watched Jon Snow's eyes hardened as the tiny man shrunk still smaller in front of a wolf-made-dragon, "I would have the lands of my father and brother restored, Lord Strickland, as is only right."

"Yes, the North must not starve," the cowed lord mumbled, "but I still don't see why you require so much men… with Rhaegal…"

Jon Snow flinched at the mention of his dragon's name.

"The outlaws hide amongst the trees and disappear into the darkness; dragon fire will do little. I fear Rhagael would burn whatever earth remains to the River Lords."

He then turned to her, "I will need to recall a thousand of my rangers. That will leave nearly five- hundred to King's Landing to bolster your gold cloaks, Your Grace. That, along with sufficient provisions for a months journey, should suffice."

_A tall order, Lord Snow._

Dany maintained her regal poise as she addressed her lord commande,. "Ser Barristan, do you believe such a force will be adequate?"

"Yes, Your Grace. With soldiers of their skill, I believe Lord Crowstark and I will be able to retake the Twins from Red Woman in little time."

'_Lord Crowstark and I'? So you mean to see your little adventure in woods through until the end?_

She looked back towards Jon Snow, forcing the smile to her face. "Then you will have your army, Lord Crowstark. However, considering the current state of the capital, it will take sometime for us to gather the necessary supplies. Can your excursion into the Riverland wait three days?"

If the delay bothered him, his face—frozen as ever—did not show it. "Of course, Your Grace."

"If the Throne goes to war, I believe it only proper that a representative of the crown join the march." Tyrion Lannister grinned at Jon Snow. "Seeing as both the king and queen will be preoccupied with this weeks festivities, it falls to their brave Hand to take up the sword."

With a prod from the little lion, Jon Snow's solemn mask shattered. "No, not you Lannister," he spat, "I will not have you dishonor my family by gloating over her—"

Dany cut across the crow's rage, "Yes, Tyrion will join the expedition." Though the regal poise remained, her eyes dared Jon Snow to protest, "The Hand's presence will be a precondition for the men and supplies you requested."

Although Dany realized she would have little luck depriving Jon Snow of his own rangers, his crows required her food.

Resigned, Jon Snow leaned back into his chair, "As you wish, Your Grace."

Admittedly, Dany did not really know to what end Tyrion could serve for rangers at war, let alone her own interest. For a moment, she feared that she acted only out of spite. _No, _she told herself_, my power must be ever present, especially in matters concerning my council_. She quickly glanced at the noble party who drank, ate, and argued around the table of her forefather. Lord Harry Strickland, Master of Coin. Ser Gunther Hightower, Master of Ships. Lord Pykewood Peake, Master of Laws. Nymeria Sand, Mistress of Works. Save for Ser Barristan, all of those who sat on the small council owed their station, and thus their loyalty, to Aegon. She did not mistrust sweet Egg; only those who would seek to advise him. Thus, though Tyrion devoted himself to his own ends, he always remained impartial when it came to choosing Queen or King.

Nymeria Sand hummed from the other end of the table while she absent-mindedly ran her fingers along the hem of her silk gown. "Which of your birds do you mean to take to war, Lord Crowstark?" You only just brought Salai the Braavosi back to me, and now you wish for him to fly off to battle once again?" She pouted her full red lips as she spoke, "the Mistress of Works requires your Braavosi's brilliant mind and it would be cruel to deny her."

The allure of the Sand Snake's olive skin could not melt Jon Snow's icy demeanor. He remained stiff, his stare never wandering from her green eyes. "With Ser Barristan accompanying me, I see no reason why Salai cannot take up his duties in the capital while his company is away. Though you must ask him, my lady, for he swore his oath only until we brought an end to winter. Now he is a free man beholden only to his own freewill."

"You do not command your own men, Lord Crowstark?" Nymeria asked incredulously.

"On the battlefield, yes." Jon Snow's shoulders seemed to slacken from exhaustion, "but whether they decide to follow me onto to that battlefield, I leave to them."

"It's wonder that you've won a single battle, Snow…" the petulant Lord Strickland mumbled, pepper seeds spitting forth from his mouth.

" You mean 'Lord Crowstark,' Strickland," Dany responded sharply to tiny man's slight. _He might be the lowest of dragons, but he is still a dragon, and I will not abide a creature such as you questioning that._ "And how many battles, may I ask, have you won?"

"Your Grace," the indignant lord cooed, "The Golden Company retook the Stormlands and smashed the armies of the Reach." He beamed with pride as his eyes glazed over, remembering wars won and foes bested. "I cannot begin to count the number of battles we won while I stood at the helm."

"At the helm or cowering at the rear?" Dany smiled innocently as Lord Strickland turned as red as his Dornish peppers.

Lord Peake laughed heartily at the expense of his former commander. Now the current lord of Starpike once his cousin replaced him in exile, the Master of Laws still carried himself like a sell-sword: large golden rings adorned both his ears, chains of precious metals and diamonds hung around his neck, and he drank more than even the drunkest of drunkards. "By all rights, Strickland, Crowstark here should be allowed to run a sword through a craven like you for even questioning his metal," Lord Peake slurred. He took a long drought of brown ale before continuing, "The man has proven he can fight like the devil, but I only wonder when his crows will be returned to their proper lords to till the field instead of swinging swords."

"Most of my rangers disbanded after the New Spring," Jon Snow replied. Though the massive Lord Peake cut an intimidating figure, Jon Snow did not hesitate," some of those that that remain either swore allegiance to the Night's Watch or Mance Rayder before the Last Winter. Most of those who now stay, however, are most likely peasants so low that their lord's didn't even bother to tie them to the land, and even so, they are more than likely of the North. Any nobility that serve are most definitely of the North." To Dany's surprise, the northerner actually smiled, "I believe the king returned your family seat in the Reach to you, is that correct? I suggest you tend to it, my lord, and leave the Crown's rangers to me."

Purple rings, brought on by perpetual drunkenness, nearly swallowed Lord Peake's bloodshot eyes as he grinned, "the rangers belong to the King and Queen you say, Crowstark? Funny, what's that they scream when they charge into battle?"

_The North Remembers… For vengeance, for the Young Wolf…_a chill ran along Dany's skin.

"Come now, Lord Peake, what else do expect will light the fire within their icy northern hearts if not the memory of their brave and departed king?" Tyrion filled his wine cup, seemingly the only one drinking at pace with Lord Peake. "Do you mean to suggest now that the utterance of house words constitutes treason? If so, I fear the headsman's wrist will soon grow tired."

Dany saw Jon Snow's eyes narrow upon Tyrion, searching his words with regard to the dead Robb Stark. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him because he remained silent.

"My brother's loyalty is beyond question, Peake." Aegon—the sweet smiling Egg—frothed with tempered fury as he addressed his Master of Laws. "And he is correct: it would be wise for you to remember who you owe your title to."

But doubt crept into Dany's mind. _Is your brother's loyalty truly beyond question, Sweet Egg? _She looked from the Northern sentinel to the Southeron King._ You who see only the good in people cannot fathom the poison that accompanies the sting of betrayal. _In truth, Dany knew that even if Jon Snow held no love for her nephew, his faultless honor would prevent him from ever rising against his half-brother. Still, though he may serve the Iron Throne, his men worship only the legendary Lord Crows. All this distrust tied Dany's stomach in knots_. Am I so broken, that I would doubt the integrity of my blood?_ But Jon Snow was not her blood. _Why can I not feel anything more than indifference for the man that won me my throne?_

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to offend." Lord Peake smiled upon his king affectionately. "We might not carry Bittersteel's standard any longer, but those of us who served will never forget what you've done for us. We thought that the Blackfyre's would bring us home, but it was you—a true Targaryen—who gave us back our honor." He then proceeded to drain his mug, slamming it to the table with momentous force, "We shall name all the children, born from noblewomen and washer women alike, Aegon and Griff!"

Flattery cooled her nephew fires, "You Honor me, Lord Peake." He moved to address the entire council, "now, aside from the trouble in the Riverlands and the ongoing construction in the capital, does any over blight plague the realm?" Aegon smiled brightly while he leaned back in his chair, challenging any member of the small council to try and dampen his spirits, "or may I return to me sweet princess and her coming name-day festivities?"

"Any word from Archmaester Marwyn and Grandmaester Ryam?" Dany inquired, looking towards Tyrion.

"Ah, yes, a raven came late last night, I believe. They return from Qarth upon _Vhagar_ as we speak."

_Good, I do not trust the Queen of Cities with my maesters. Though perhaps they could keep Ryam_, Dany thought with a smile.

"Well then," Dany stood to address the entire council, relishing how men bowed to her despite her tiny frame, "I see no reason why we cannot not bring this council meeting to an end—"

"If you would excuse me, Your Grace, but I must ask to speak with you and Aegon alone."

Dany jerked her neck to look at Jon Snow, barely concealing her rage. _You dare to interrupt a your Queen? _She swore she saw his pale checks redden beneath her gaze.

Jon Snow continued, "Lannister, please leave behind your parchment."

"Well I'll be damned. I did not take you for a scribe, Lord Crowstark. Did I finally rub off on you after all that time spent up North?" With his disfigured face, even Lord Tyrion's most sincere of smiles smacked of mockery, "well enjoy yourselves, dragons. I am off to find a serving maid who prefers my purse and sweet charms over my face and squat legs."

Suddenly, every member of the small council began to follow the prancing dwarf out of the chamber. The Spider alone seemed to linger by the door, his ears trained upon the whispers that hung in the air, before leaving. _Though they muttered insults underneath their breath, they all fall in line to the bastard's command…even Ser Barristan_. Dany finally shed her regal poise as she sunk into her chair, fuming at the presumptuous crow that sat before her.

Aegon appeared ignorant to the usurpation of power they just witnessed; instead, he looked anxious as his brother scribbled away on two pieces of parchment. Since the table spanned nearly the length of the room, Jon Snow walked his neatly folded letters to his trueborn Targaryen kin.

Fear, then excitement, replaced the feeling of indignation that filled Dany once she saw Aegon's face go from blank shock to unrestrained glee. With nimble fingers, she unfolded her own parchment. Her heart stopped at the sight of a single word.

_Dragons._


End file.
